


Not Even The Gods Could Keep Me From You

by myrtlewilson



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, BAMF Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, F/F, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Loves Jaskier | Dandelion, Hurt/Comfort, Jaskier | Dandelion Loves Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Jaskier | Dandelion Whump, Kidnapping, M/M, Minor Jaskier | Dandelion/Other(s), Minor Triss Merigold/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, Miscommunication, Mistaken for a God, Misunderstandings, OMC character death, Past Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg, References to Norse Religion & Lore, Religious Cults, attempted human sacrifice
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-08
Updated: 2020-07-08
Packaged: 2021-03-04 21:34:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 18,383
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25153261
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/myrtlewilson/pseuds/myrtlewilson
Summary: While attempting to gather potion ingredients which Yenneferinsistscould, in theory, break their djinn-bond, Geralt finds himself in a race against time to steal back Jaskier from a group of Skelligan cultists who believe him to be the reincarnation of their fertility god, Freyr. And they're hellbent on sending the man home, back to Asgard, through by any means possible.Which was annoying, more than anything, since Geralt hadn't even told the bard he loved him yet.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Triss Merigold/Yennefer z Vengerbergu | Yennefer of Vengerberg
Comments: 22
Kudos: 380
Collections: Geraskier Midsummer Mini Bang





	Not Even The Gods Could Keep Me From You

**Author's Note:**

> First off, thank you so, so much to the wonderful [janekfan](https://janekfan.tumblr.com) who did not one but THREE pieces of art for this which not only came out spectacularly but was way more than I could have ever hoped for.
> 
> Then, thank you to the fantastic [degeneratedsoup](https://degeneratedsoup.tumblr.com/) for betaing on incredibly short notice and helping me parse through the word-salad that is my writing.
> 
> Did I plan to write more than 18,000 words for a Geraskier Midsummer Mini Bang submission? No. And yet, to quote our favorite bard, here we are. Enjoy! 

There was a very short list in Geralt’s hand, and honestly, with what was written on it, he wasn’t even sure why he needed a list.

It read as follows:

  1. Bloodmoss (five?)
  2. Fill bag with siren scales — **NOT BURNED**
  3. Bark from yggdrasilli tree (three or four good pieces)



Yennefer could be mysterious when she wanted to be, but thank the spirits she was straightforward when it came to potion work. Well, relatively. He wasn’t sure what five with a question mark could imply — five handfuls? Bagfuls? — but it was easier to err on the side of too much, rather than not enough. Easier still that all of this could be found on the same island.

Not burned, underlined three times, spoke for itself. No _igni_ on the sirens then. That wasn’t to say he wouldn’t use it on Jaskier if the bard didn’t stop his damned fiddling on a flute that he’d, impressively enough, crafted from a boar’s tusk after dinner a few nights ago.

“What’s this all for again,” the poet asked for perhaps the third time in less than a week. 

It took everything Geralt had not to throttle him. Being stuck together on a small boat with nothing but each other and their mute of a captain for company would do that to a person. For as much as the other man wrote and listened when it behooved him and his stories, he did very little _actual_ listening of import.

It could have been endearing, if it wasn’t for the fact it was so frustrating, most times.

“Potion gathering,” said Geralt. “Remember?”

“Ah, yes, yes.” Jaskier waved a hand like he remembers everything, though the witcher knew he remembered, _fuck all._ “Playing delivery boy for the very sexy, very insane witch. Of course.”

“She’s not insane. She’s—,”

“So you acknowledge she’s attractive then?”

Geralt tried to put on his most aggressively annoyed look, the one where his brows knit together and the lines under his eyes became quite prominent. “That’s not the point.”

“What is the point, then?”

The point, Geralt knew, was this: Somewhere in Aretuza, Yennefer had managed to get her hands on a rather old volume of work by a man named Amos var Ypsis, a Skelliger who considered himself the utmost authority on djinn magic.

While no one knew where the man had disappeared to, after an impressively terrible storm which only resulted in half his ship being washed ashore, parts of his work had somehow survived, stuffed tight into an empty bottle of Est Est which floated to Hindarsfjall. From there it flitted to the surroundings of Kaer Trolde, fluttered to the inner city of Novigrad and flopped straight into the library of the school of sorceresses right on the Isle of Thanedd.

And while that was all well and good — the witcher being a supporter of the preservation of most sciences and history, after all — the greater point was that Ypsis had, allegedly, discovered a way to break a djinn wish. The man, obsessed with the magic of these creatures, had devoted his life to finding out the equal and opposite reaction of djinn magic which would hence nullify anything previously wished upon a person — should they be alive and well enough to undo it.

It was, as his notes suggested, a potion. The items for which Geralt held in the breast pocket of his leather jerkin, close to the heart. Not that he needed the reminder, but the list served as more than a way to check his progress.

The list was a beacon, a little candle light of hope. It was the realization that after years of being bonded, he and Yennefer would finally be able to be set free of one another.

Not that there was anything wrong with his relationship to the sorceress; quite the opposite in fact. Despite their frequent, somewhat frantic — and, honestly, rather fantastic — trysts together, the two had fast come to realize the bond between them was purely sexual. No love. Just lust. 

Their compulsory coupling wasn’t fair to either of them; especially not Yennefer, who had admitted to him one night after falling together that the true object of her eye was Triss Merigold of Maribor. She had looked to him expectantly, as if he would admit something of the same — that while, yes, Yennefer was there and in his bed, someone else was in his heart and in his mind. 

Though it was true. There was someone else — though, he’d never say it out loud.

Especially because that someone was being a rather _annoying_ little shit right now, blasting short little triplets through his tusk whistle, and trying to whittle the finger openings larger to gain a fuller sound.

“Will you quit it?” 

“Oh, I’m sorry,” Jaskier rolled his eyes, “and do _what else_ with my time? Knit you a sweater? We’ve been stuck on this ship for _days_ and I _hate_ sailing.” 

Geralt grit his teeth but kept quiet. 

He wasn’t sure when he had fallen in love with the bard, nor why, but there was an unmistakable feeling of _want_ in his chest when he looked to the man that felt different than the forced nature between him and Yennifer. 

Perhaps it was because Jaskier was the first person to choose to be by his side, rather than forced. Perhaps it was because Jaskier was the first non-magical entity that had looked at him and not felt fear but friendship.

Perhaps, it was simply because the man was good looking. 

For any, or all, of the reasons, he had fallen for the man — and it was because of that reason he wanted the djinn-bond gone. As soon as it was... he’d tell Jaskier. Tell him that he wanted more. 

Wanted something other than kisses explained away by a night of too many ales. Of quiet handjobs in the dead of night, off the beaten path, which turned into mornings where neither looked each other in the eye out of fear of what might be seen. Where conversation of the future, of wants and needs, had become absent from their typical banter because…

Because Geralt’s ideal future was with Jaskier. And it frightened him more than he could possibly imagine. Vulnerability was not a color he wore well, nor was public adoration, which was something Jaskier ate up like a starved man. 

Yet, for him, Geralt was willing to try. And to try, he believed, it was only fair to make sure there was only one person in the picture. Just Jaskier. No one else.

Until then, there was frustration. Particularly, just because the potion was written up by one of the foremost djinn experts on the Continent didn’t necessarily mean it would work. The thought had Geralt filled with a pent up mix of anxiety and energy he seldom felt.

The four day boat ride they currently endured didn’t help matters much either, only serving to further sour the witcher’s mood. Yen offered to portal them there, deciding the ingredients could be obtained much faster, but Geralt was adamant — no portals unless necessary. The djinn-bond had stayed for this long already without killing either of them. It could wait the week or so to get what they needed and go home.

They’d compromised, however. Yennefer was insistent on portaling from Gors Velen to Kerack, whereupon it was their own job to secure a boat and goods for the trip ahead. She’d insisted, too, on giving them a special, two-way xenovox, so that they could keep her abreast of the situation.

Geralt thought it unnecessary, but wisely held his tongue. Humoring Yennefer was sometimes the easier route. Though, looking back, Geralt perhaps wished he’d taken the sorceress up on her portal offer, dislike of them be damned. 

Since Undvik, the portion of the Skellige Isles they were headed to, was seldom traveled by way of Kerack, they had to wait an additional three days for affordable passage to be made available to them. Which brought the poet and the witcher to now: bored as a succubus at a eunuch's gathering, resorting to idle chatter — and repetitive noise making, on the part of Jaskier — to pass the time.

It seemed, however, that the poet had taken Geralt’s griping to heart and put away the little instrument in his satchel. The ever present lute had been left behind in Yennefer’s possession, for the reason being something along the lines of “salt water and wooden instruments don’t mix, you animal.”

The witcher almost wished for it back, if only to stop the equally poor mood which had overcome Jaskier during their trip. Perhaps it was the sea sickness, for the human had vomited profusely a few hours into their journey, and only very recently stopped. Or maybe separation anxiety from his most treasured instrument, which Geralt had rarely seen leave the bard’s possession, and never for such a length of time.

Maybe he was just as nervous about this possible djinn-antidote as Geralt was.

“We should make land by evening,” said the witcher, hoping it would be a reassurance. “Unfortunately, the island is mostly uninhabited, so I doubt we’ll be getting any inn-service. But, if I remember right, there’s enough good game on the island to possibly make a stew.”

Jaskier hummed in a rather witcher-ly way, which Geralt tried not to read too much into. Rather, he took stock of the sun, which was at midpoint in the sky, and the unendingly blue color of the water as it met the horizon. A great day for sailing.

Yet, as gorgeous as it was, he couldn’t help shake the fact that something seemed... wrong.

* * *

Jaskier seemed a bit more talkative once they’d reached land. Perhaps it was just the sea that had ailed him and his mood.

“You take the sirens, I look for the moss, then?” It was the first thing out of Jaskier’s mouth all day that hadn’t seemed like an irritation to say. “Seems the quickest way to do it.”

Geralt nodded.

They made land on the northeastern most point of Undvik, at Marlins Coast, with a promise to the man at the helm — whom Jaskier learned was named Gunhild — that they would be back in two days' time.

While the island wasn’t necessarily large, the distances they had to span would take them from one coast to the other without the use of horseback, which would be a long, aching pain in the ass as Roach, for all of her uses over the years, was abysmal on the rocky terrains of Skellige. It only made sense to leave her behind under Yen’s watchful eye, along with the lute, as they ran the errand for the sorceress.

The easiest and quickest thing to grab, considering their location, would be the siren scales. Geralt marched them away from their boat to keep their captain from harm as he explained his reasoning to the bard. 

And there they gathered, for much of the late afternoon: Jaskier wandering this way and that, up and down the shore, barefooted with his breeches rolled to the knee, as Geralt baited and shot sirens out of a fading blue sky.

The bard hummed as he worked, imperceptible over the noise of the tide to anyone but a witcher. So Geralt listened as he resharpened the head of a used arrow with a bit of grindstone. 

A frown unfolded on his face. 

Jaskier’s song was somber, wistful. Again the feeling of being _wrongfooted_ overcame the witcher.

Geralt stood, leaving the arrow and the crossbow on the ground and called for Jaskier. Now would be best to break for dinner. They could spend the rest of the day trekking as far inward as they could make it tonight, closer to where trees grew, and take tomorrow morning to de-bark them before coming back.

Jaskier made his way, now redressed, up the hilltop to where the witcher stood with all his belongings repacked neatly. He told Jaskier of the plans to sup and move on. Without fuss, Jaskier agreed, patting his stomach as he spoke of rabbit stew.

“Oh — and by the way,” Jaskier handed him a damp cloth sack full of bloodmoss. “My treat.”

“You gathered it. Shouldn’t you be the one carrying it?”

“And get these pants wet? Not a chance. Damp linen is _so_ uncomfortable.”

Geralt snorted. 

It felt weird to walk without Roach, like choosing to take the longer path when a shortcut was available, but it did give Geralt time to ponder. And ponder the bard, specifically.

The man, in recent days, had become unnaturally reserved and quiet. Not just in the moments leading up to their voyage, but sometime before then, too. Like he was pulling away. The thought made Geralt’s heart lurch.

They were some ways away from the seaside when he’d finally opened his mouth and asked.

“Crown for your thoughts?”

Jaskier snorted but otherwise said nothing.

“I’m serious,” Geralt continued, when he’d realized Jaskier was content to leave it at that, “you seemed... on the boat, you seemed upset.”

Again, Jaskier made a noise. This time it was less lighthearted and more disparaging. His face contorted as if he’d found something funny about the situation but the look of mirth didn’t quite reach his eyes. Geralt let the sound of dirt crunching beneath their boots count out the seconds as each passed.

“Aren’t I allowed to be tired?” Jaskier said. He shuffled his satchel higher up on his shoulder, absentmindedly playing with the buckle that held the strap at its current length. “Sailing takes a lot out of a man, and we’ve spent the whole day working. Well... working-ish.”

Geralt frowned. “I’m not just talking about today, though.”

“It’s nothing. I assure you.”

“Jaskier—,”

“I _assure_ you,” the bard said again, but firmer. “There’s nothing wrong. I promise. I’m simply tired from the boat ride and now, thinking of all the walking we’ll have to do — both there, and back — followed by more sailing ... _gods_ , I’m tired just talking about it.”

It wasn’t the truth and Geralt knew it. Instead, it roiled something in his blood and made his teeth grit. The witcher made to speak, to call Jaskier out on his lie, when his breast pocket gave a quick and insistent buzz.

He removed the xenovox and switched it on.

“Yes?” 

_“Have you made land, yet?”_ Yennefer’s voice came through the small tin, faint but audible. It was a wonder the magic of the contraption worked at such long distances.

It didn’t escape Geralt’s notice that Jaskier had straightened up, like he’d been zapped with new energy. Like he was putting on a front.

“Indeed we have, your majesty,” he called into the xenovox, loud and purposefully obnoxious, “healthy and hale, no thanks to you.”

“ _Well if I had it_ my _way, I would have teleported you. But_ someone _is afraid of portals, and—,”_

“Not _afraid,”_ Geralt corrected, “they just… make me nauseous. Rather avoid them when I can.”

_“Oh, boo. So very sad for you.”_

The witcher rolled his eyes. “Does this check-in have a point?”

_“Just wanted to see if you had made it on time. And that you hadn’t killed one another.”_

“How magnanimous of you,” said Jaskier.

_“Believe me, it’s not out of care for you,_ ” Yennefer sniped back. _“The sooner you collect what we need, the faster we can try var Ypsis’ recipe. And the faster we can figure out if this djinn-bond can be terminated.”_

“Ah, yes. Right.” Again, Jaskier’s voice fell.

_Was it something to do with the djinn?_ Geralt couldn’t think of why that would be. If anything, the quicker he became un-tethered to Yen, the quicker he could tell Jaskier what he’d been trying to tell him the whole time: That his feelings for the bard wasn’t a second best scenario.

But it seemed like maybe— perhaps...

Had Geralt been reading the situation wrong from the beginning? Was the bard happy to make this a tentative, non-committed type of fling? Was the idea of the bond being broken, of Geralt being able to be a man free to make his own decisions — decisions which involved choosing Jaskier — did that bother him?

Geralt had never known the man to be a committed sort of person. Did the idea of tethering himself to Geralt unnerve the bard?

Something sunk in his stomach.

“Geralt?”

He looked to the bard, who looked concerned. At some point, they had stopped walking. Geralt began again, listening to the crunch of gravel underfoot as Jasker matched his pace.

“Are you alright?”

“Hm?”

_“I’ve been talking to you and you haven’t said a word. No different than usual, but this time, without facial cues, I really do need verbal input from you_.” Yennefer sounded frustrated, and he couldn’t blame her.

“Sorry,” said Geralt, in lieu of an explanation. “What was it you asked?”

_“If you would message me when you reach the portion of Undvik with the yggdrasilli. I need a certain shade of bark — the recipe calls for the younger the bark the better. If I can scry you, when you’re there, I’d be able to tell you what would work for me and what wouldn’t.”_

Geralt grunted an affirmative, telling her of their plans to gather the shavings tomorrow. His mind was still floating with what the possibilities of Jaskier and his sullen, self-professed tired mood could mean.

_“Ta then, boys. Call when you get there.”_

The silver tin buzzed again, twice in quick succession, then fell silent again. Geralt slipped it back in the breast pocket of his jerkin. He patted over the spot once, as a reminder and affirmation it was there, then dropped his hand back to his side.

It knocked against the back of Jaskier’s own.

The bard was looking at him again, eyes full of concern and question.

“You alright?” He asked. “Went away there for a second.”

“It’s nothing.” 

Jaskier laughed. “Turning the tables now, are we?”

It took the witcher a second to realize he’d uttered the same words as Jaskier did, not moments ago, when he’d attempted to deflect Geralt’s own questions.

“Not purposefully,” he said. Geralt paused to think of what to say next, realizing it could only best be summed up as: “I just... hope this works.”

“Even if it doesn’t, at least we tried.”

That was true enough. But Geralt didn’t just want to make an attempt — he wanted the bond gone with. Done. Over. He’d too often found himself pulled in Yennefer’s direction, into her arms and bed, when he’d wanted nothing more than to be with Jaskier; it was like a fog of animal lust descended over his brain whenever they spent too long together, and in too close quarters.

He knew it was much the same with her. She’d complained of it to him often; the feeling of manufactured want, swirling in her stomach, that was only doused by the cool splash of shame when they’d surfaced afterward and realized yet again what they’d done.

And then to come back to Jaskier, after... to look the man in the eye, to know that he’d slept with Yennefer despite feeling nothing for her — it was too much. Particularly when the bard would give a sad smile, like he knew, like he assumed he was second best. Like he assumed what went on between he and the witcher didn’t matter when it couldn’t be further from the truth.

Geralt sighed, scrubbing a hand over his eyes. Not for the first time, he’d cursed whatever fates took away his ability to have a simple, quiet life.

“If you don’t mind me asking... What does the bond feel like? _Can_ you feel it?”

It wasn’t exactly an uncalled for question. 

“It’s like…,” Geralt tried to conjure the best possible synonym, “it feels like you’re a dog on a tether, being dragged behind your master and not... not wanting to go where the leash leads. And sometimes that leash leads to good places, good... _happenings_. But other times, it’s nothing but a racket.”

“Dog on a leash, hm?”

Geralt didn’t know how to respond, so he stayed quiet. Birdsong from overhead broke up the intermittent quiet, and despite Jaskier only being an arms-length away, the bard had somehow never felt further.

“Does it bother you,” Geralt asked, at last, making the question seem more like a statement.

“Does what?”

“The bond.”

“Why would it. Shouldn’t that be a question I ask you?”

“I—,” the witcher didn’t know what to say. Jaskier had a point.

“Whatever happens,” Jaskier began, then paused. Geralt watched the hitch in his throat as the man swallowed and tried again. “Whatever happens, even if this doesn’t break, I just want to make sure you won’t... you know, take it personal. That you just…,”

“Just what?”

Jaskier blew out a breath. “Well, I’m not quite sure. Be happy sounds so insincere, especially if you do feel like a dog on a leash, as you say. I just don’t want you trolloping through the countryside all your life feeling like you have to do this just because some sexy, insane witch says you do.”

“We both want the bond gone.” This, the witcher knew to be true. The look in Yen’s eyes when she’d told him of her feelings for Triss — it was something that couldn’t be faked. “Even if it takes years, we’re going to find a way to do away with it.”

“And until then, you’ll just suffer?”

“It’s not— ,”

“I just don’t want you to spend your whole life looking for something, only to have everything else pass by.” Jaskier bit his lip, and in the lowering light of a burnt-orange sky, Geralt couldn’t help but think the bard looked handsome. Like a painted portrait. “Maybe that’s selfish of me to say. Maybe it’s not, but I—,”

The rest of Jaskier’s sentence was lost behind the mitt of the witcher’s thick leather glove. Geralt’s medallion vibrated against his chest as the bard gave an indignant squeal.

“Medallion’s humming,” he said, voice pitched low, “be _quiet_.”

Jaskier hadn’t traveled with him for two-odd decades not to know what that meant. His eyes widened, as if to ask: _Trouble?_

Geralt’s gaze fixed to the dirt as he willed himself to concentrate and listen. His ears picked up on the sound of hoof-beats as the rest of the world, and its sounds, fell away. They were too heavy to be wild — unless the horse itself was some sort of behemoth, or a centaur. 

Unlikely, but possible. The other option was that the horse had a rider.

But that seemed even more preposterous, considering Undvik was meant to be uninhabited. The last of the natives of this isle had left decades ago following a flash invasion of cyclops and trolls, after the beasts which had long lay dormant in the mines and caverns had awoken to the working of greedy Skelligers in their home. 

He grabbed Jaskier by the arm, off the path and into bushes, where he pushed the bard until he belly down and nose deep in the earth. It did little to conceal his robin’s egg-blue doublet and breeches — lined in shining gold trim, the ostentatious _ass_ — but it was better than nothing.

Geralt grabbed for a sword — silver, just in case.

“Don’t move until I tell you.” He said, loud enough for Jaskier to hear but not so much as to alert the oncoming... _thing_. “Not a sound. No matter what.”

Geralt strained his eyes against the lowering sun, spotting not one, but two blonde riders on the backs of mountless mares. One sported a half-braided, long and tangled mane with a beard of similar coloring, giving the impression the person was completely engulfed by their own hair. The other’s sides were shaved so that the top was pulled into a small ponytail or bun at the top of their skull.

The seemingly less-unkempt one’s face was half painted green, the deep shade of which neatly bisected his face in two, running right down the bridge of his nose.

It wasn’t a paint style Geralt associated with mainland Skelligers. 

That made him all the more wary. 

“What do you see?” Jaskier whispered, but his question was lost by the witcher’s gritted “ _quiet!”_

That was all he could get out before the riders were upon them. They spoke quickly between one another, in a tongue Geralt wasn’t familiar with. It sounded similar to High Skelligan, the island language of Conjunction-days, from long ago, but the witcher knew that should have been impossible.

The language had died out, along with the Wozgor people who spoke it. And if they didn’t die, it had at least been long forgotten by the sands of time and the force of assimilation, as most of the people fled East and forgot their island comrades.

Geralt eyed the two warily. “Peace.”

The bearded rider spat to his side and gave the witcher a similar, visual appraisal. His compatriot, however, didn’t give Geralt a passing glance as he scanned their surroundings. Whatever he found, or failed to, seemed to upset him.

“Where is he? The bard, who was with you.” 

It took all Geralt had not to betray his shock. The clean-shaven one spoke without any sort of lit or accent which would betray their Skellegan origin, and clearly both understood and spoke Common Nordic. What this meant, the witcher hadn’t a clue.

What persons chose to speak a dead language when… Geralt shook his head. It didn’t matter. That they were seeking Jaskier, of all people, was at the forefront of his mind.

“Why?” 

If they knew he had come with a bard, then it wouldn’t do either of them any good to feign ignorance. The bearded rider dismounted. It was clear, now that he was on even footing with the witcher, the man had at least three to four additional inches on Geralt.

He strode past the witcher and into the bushes on the opposite side of the road from which Jaskier lay. Were it possible for Geralt’s heart to race, it would be. 

_Just don’t look to where he is_ , the witcher thought to himself. Sweat beaded on the nape of his neck as he stood in the island sun, staring down the clean-shaven rider.

“I’ll ask you again,” the rider said, “where is he?”

“And I’ll say the same thing: Why do you need to know?”

The painted rider’s face furled into a smirk. “The high druid of our village requests his presence. It would be rude to refuse him, you see.”

Geralt’s fingers twitched around the hilt of his sword. His mind raced, trying to think of a solution. He’d inadvertently allowed for the enemy to surround him — a failure on his part — but that didn’t mean he’d be left underhanded. A simple shield-burst of _quen_ could knock the horseback-rider off his mount, and stun his dismounted compatriot, if drawn close enough.

So long as it didn’t mean knocking either of them back toward where Jaskier hid, it would be a success. He just had to bide his time for the right moment.

“Not much of a fan of taking orders,” drawled Geralt, “and especially not from druids. What’s he want the bard for? Haven’t been here long enough for him to… _defile_ any acolytes, so I know it’s not that.”

At once, the painted rider’s face contorted from serenity to rage, so quickly Geralt was almost convinced he’d donned a mask. 

“You will _not_ speak of Him like that,” the rider spat, pulling back on the reins so his mount was forced to rear its hooves. The move just missed the witcher’s skull as the horse screamed in protest.

Rage filled their eyes.

“Filthy _mutant_ ,” he hissed, “you’d do well to mind your tongue in His presence.”

Geralt snorted. “Never been good at that. Never been good at minding my patience, either. So,” he crouched low, as if to pounce, “ _you’d_ do well to fuck off, before— ,”

The threat was lost in a pained cry. _Jaskier_. 

So caught up in the first rider, he’d all but forgotten to watch where the second went. And it seemed he’d found the bard. Geralt hissed a curse and waved the sign of _aard_ , blowing the painted rider off his horse.

The mount screamed again and began to buck frantically as its stunned rider toppled to the ground. Geralt whirled to find the burly, bearded man with a dagger pinned to Jasker’s throat. To his credit, the bard was sporting a bloodied nose and red stained teeth, meaning he’d at least attempted to fight back before being captured.

Against a man twice his bulk, it was admirable. Geralt’s chest swirled with a strange mix of pride and fear.

The painted rider staggered upright, out of the corner of Geralt’s eye, and looked over the bard. 

“You’re sure that’s him?” 

In reply, the bearded one held up, of all things, Jaskier’s whittled tusk-whistle. The two seemed to have some sort of conversation in gaze alone, which ended with the clean-shaven one nodding with a hand upon their sword.

“We leave with Freyr,” the man said through a thick Skelligan accent. Geralt didn’t have enough time to be confused at that, gaze stuck to where the edge of the man’s weapon met with Jaskier’s throat.

Even with death so near, it didn’t stop the bard from talking.

“You have the wrong man, good sir,” he babbled. “Whomever this Freyr is, that’s not me. I’m Jaskier, the bard — you _must_ have heard of me, even living so far from the main— _ah!_ ”

The bearded man had seized a fistful of Jaskier’s hair and yanked back sharply, further exposing his throat and shutting him up. Geralt growled. A thin bead of blood trailed down from where the dagger had pressed too hard, tracing the line of Jaskier’s Adam's apple and stopping midway to his clavicle.

“Freyr comes,” said the man, “you stay. Or you die.”

“Like _hell_.”

Geralt swirled to find the painted rider had since advanced, having pulled his sword with a grim look of satisfaction. With a blade to his back and another at his front, there was little the witcher could do to not only save his skin, but Jaskier’s as well.

Well, not without hurting everyone in the process.

Jaskier would just have to forgive him after the fact. A throbbing skull was better than a dead body, after all.

Geralt stepped closer to the bearded man, as his compatriot drew in quick behind him.

“Move again, and Darby will run you through,” the bearded man snapped.

Geralt drew the sign of _quen_ and felt the power fill him, surround him.

“I’m counting on it, you bastards.”

He let go. The explosion of power from him threw all three bodies back, leaving the witcher standing above them. Geralt lunged for Jaskier, who lay dazed on top of their bearded foe, but found himself gripped at the wrist by the person called Darby.

He hissed something in the old language before coming down on Geralt with his blade. 

The witcher was just fast enough to block, but not parry it.

“You should have let us leave with Him, _witcher_ ,” Darby said, like Geralt’s title was the filthiest of curses. “Now this road becomes your grave.”

“Jaskier, _run_!”

It was all he could say before Darby brought his sword down again, pushing back against Geralt in an attempt to disarm him. There was a strength within his slender body which let the witcher know it was not Darby’s first fight.

It would, however, be their last.

Geralt spun, dodging a jab as he turned to bring Jaskier into his field of view. The bard had unsheathed a dagger of his own — typically kept in the inner of his doublet, strapped tight to his ribs — and held tight to it as he stabbed at the now upright and advancing bearded man.

But not being a fighter, and off kilter still from the explosion of _quen_ , the move left Jaskier exposed. His opponent took it. Grasping at his forearm, the bearded man pulled the bard closer, landing a solid punch to Jaskier’s sternum which left him wheezing for air. Despite trying to stay upright, his knees fell out from under him, and the man pulled Jaskier closer, like a dancer moving to dip his partner.

Instead, a solid punch to the back of Jaskier’s head followed, which rendered him limp. As if the bard weighed nothing, the bearded man slung him over his shoulder and whistled, likely for Darby, whose back was still to him.

“Go! Vigo,” Darby barked, not bothering to check the scene. “ _Go!_ ”

Like new life had been breathed into him at the sight of Jaskier, unconscious and bleeding, Geralt roared as he brought down his silver sword in quick bursts, hardly giving Darby time to block. Unwilling to be moved, though, Darby stood his ground.

It bought enough time for Vigo to sling the bard over the back of his horse and remount.

The witcher yelled, as if his voice alone could rouse Jaskier.

“Fight well,” Vigo called, then laughed. “Tonight, the _blót-blessing_ awaits!”

Darby looked giddy as he slashed at Geralt. 

“Praise be to Frayr, brother!”

Vigo’s voice was already fading as he spurred on his mount. “Praise be!”

There was nothing more Geralt wanted then than to strike the two bastards down. Darby kicked at the earth, sending up a cloud of dust which made the witcher’s eyes water. Against a normal man, that could have been a real threat — a life ending one. Against a witcher, though, it was merely a party trick.

And a dirty, honorless one at that.

Darby advanced, body language and stance talking as if he’d already beaten Geralt. But his happiness made him sloppy, playing him right into the witcher’s hands. A misplaced swipe had Geralt ducking out from Darby’s field of attack, leaving his sword out with a straight arm. And much like his wolfish name sake, Geralt saw the opportunity, and came down, teeth bared, hoping for blood.

His silver sang as it made contact, hitting bone and hitting deep, before hitting nothing. Darby gasped. His arm, once outstretched strong with his weapon, now flopped to the dirt. A pool of blood began to steadily gush from his stump as Darby screamed out.

Falling to the dirt, he tried to grab for the blade with his other hand, but Geralt was faster. The witcher’s boot came down, hard, against outstretched fingers until he felt them creek beneath his heel. Any further pressure and they’d be sure to break.

Geralt held the tip of his sword between Darby’s brow.

“Where did Vigo go?”

Shock and fear had glazed over the fighter’s eyes, leaving him staring at Geralt like someone who’d lost their mind. Like someone who’d never lost a fight before being suddenly brought to their knees in the dirt.

The witcher gripped his blade tighter. “ _Answer me!_ ”

Darby’s mouth began to move, making sounds, words, which sounded like the old language. Geralt pushed down harder with his heel, struck by the essence of time. But before he could move, Darby breathed out a soft “ _thanks be to the Mother_ ” before reeling back then forward into Geralt’s blade.

The shock of the quick, unexpected suicide had the witcher stepping back. With him came the blade, now covered in blood, as Darby’s lifeless body fell to the dirt.

“Fuck,” Geralt said, aloud, still no closer to unraveling the crazed yarn he and Jaskier had suddenly found themselves tangled in.

Why couldn’t anything ever be _easy_ for them? Why did it always have to end in blood, curses, death or some combination of the three?

He shook the frustration off, instead realizing the scent of blood was still in the air. Not just Darby’s, but Jaskier’s too. Geralt realized the nosebleed must have restarted — that, or Vigo had further injured Jaskier, other than what he’d seen — leaving behind a faint trail of blood. 

Blood imperceptible to anyone but a witcher.

Prompted by the realization that not all was lost, Geralt made toward Darby’s mount, which bared its teeth at the witcher until a swift hit of _axii_ calmed it enough to be ridden. He urged the horse in the way he’d seen Vigo depart.

As he jolted in the saddle, he felt the thick _thump_ of the xenovox against his chest.

_Yennefer_ . Of course. The sorceress would be the best person to ask about who this _Freyr_ was and why, of all things, was Undvik not as uninhabited as it was _supposed_ to be.

He pulled the device out and called into it until she answered.

“ _That was quick._ ” 

“Someone’s taken Jaskier.”

There was silence for a beat. Geralt urged the horse off the beaten path as the scent veered sharply left.

_“You’ve been on an uninhabited island for less than a day and your bard still managed to find a way to get himself in trouble. It’s truly impressive, Geralt.”_

If it were a different circumstance, he would probably laugh at the absurd reality of the situation. 

“This is serious. Does the name _Freyr_ mean anything to you?”

_“I know he’s the god of harvest in native Skelligan tradition — but the sects which followed that branch of belief have been dead for years,”_ were she in front of him now, Geralt knew she’d be pursing her lips. _“What’s that got to do with anything?”_

“The people who took him, that’s what they kept calling him. Freyr.”

Jaskier’s scent was fading. At least that meant his bleeding had stopped, though following the trail had suddenly become harder. He could dismount and track the hoofprints by foot for 100 percent accuracy, thought that would come at the cost of time.

Something they didn’t have.

_“Why?”_

Geralt strained his eyes to spy hoofprints in the grass, hoping against all hope this would lead him to where Vigo rode before it became too dark to see. He growled in frustration, reminding Yennefer that if he knew the answer, he wouldn’t need to be bothering her with the question in the first place.

She fell quiet for some time. When he prompted her again, she told him she was working on it. What “it” was, however, remained to be seen.

The land dipped, descending downward. At the bottom of the valley, in the distance, lay a village which at first glance looked ramshackled. The neatly kept fields behind it, though barren of crop, implied anything but.

This would have to be the place Vigo went.

He thought of Jaskier, with blood on his teeth and fear in his eyes. He thought of him and his wistful humming, of his voice softly asking about the passage of time.

_I just don’t want you to spend your whole life looking for something, only to have everything else pass by_ — that was what he’d said.

But what had he meant? 

Perhaps this time Geralt wouldn’t get a chance to untangle Jaskier’s poetry.

The witcher shook his head. No. He couldn’t afford to have himself think like that. There was still time. There was still a chance.

Yennefer’s voice again sounded through the xenovox. “ _Geralt. I need you to stop for a moment and listen to me. Do you hear me?”_

It was the tone she used when truly serious. Against his own gut feeling, which told him time could be running out, he slowed the horse to a stop. He patted the dappled-grey flank of Darby’s horse as it panted through its bit, having been ridden hard by the witcher in Vigo’s wake.

When the xenovox failed to chime again, Geralt tried to signal Yennefer, only to be met with silence. Anger washed over him. He didn’t have _time_ to play these games when Jaskier had been taken into whatever— 

The sudden light of a portal blinded him, making the horse scream in fear. Through it stepped Yennefer, in high black boots and even higher black breeches, wrapped in a forest-green cloak that he knew was _not_ a part of her typical wardrobe meaning it had to belong to Triss.

Her violet eyes flit briefly to the sky as he dismounted.

“You were right to be quick,” said Yennefer, “because I fear if we don’t get the bard before nightfall, he’ll be dead.”

An icy vein of fear lanced through Geralt. He opened his mouth to ask why, _how_ she knew this, when the sorceress stopped him with a raised hand.

_“Yen…,”_

“Leave the horse.” She began to march them down the hill, toward the village. “Come on. Walk and talk, Geralt.”

He followed her, reluctance in each step. “What are you not telling me?”

She was trying to hide her face from him in the cloak, Geralt could tell, which only meant one thing. He snatched Yennefer by the elbow, spinning her to face him.

“You _knew.”_

Her face morphed into a snarl as she ripped her arm from his grip. “Oh quit your self pity, you ridiculous _ass_ . I didn’t know _this_ would happen.”

“But something like it, then?”

Yennefer pursed her lips, searching for words.

“Istredd some months ago had... told me of a new finding, on Undvik, when he knew I was interested in Skelligan literature on djinn-magic. Told me as a,” she sighed, “as a warning. That there were people here, nomadic and not quite safe to contact, who followed the religions created at the time of the Conjunctions. Religions unlike the somewhat sanitized versions most Continent-folk follow now.”

Geralt almost argued over what definition of _sanitized_ Yennefer was referring to, thinking of the Church of the Eternal Flame’s public burning of non-human folk, before realizing now wasn’t the time. Instead he shook his head.

“Undvik’s been uninhabited for years,” said Geralt, “everyone knows— ,”

“Yes, yes everyone _thinks_ the island is uninhabited, but that’s simply because no one has seen Undivikers.” She turned her gaze to the ramshackle village. “People built those homes, long ago. Everyone assumed they’d left or been eaten by the creatures that walk this island. Turns out, while most left or died off — some stayed, and continued following their ways of old.”

“I don’t have time for an anthropology lesson, Yen. Get to the point.”

“Tomorrow’s the beginning of midsummer.”

Perplexed, Geralt nodded. Truthfully if she’d told him tomorrow was Yule he would have agreed, being piss poor with keeping track of dates and times.

“They called Jaskier Freyr,” she said, slowly, “who’s often associated as the god of the harvest or fertility in old Skelligan religions. By my best guess, it seems these folk believe your bard to be associated with their god somehow and have taken him for... Honestly, I don’t even know. Maybe to worship him? Possibly, to kill him, or any number of actions in between.

“There aren’t many surviving texts on ancient godly rituals for long dead Skelligan clans, oddly enough, and I don’t think we have time to reconvene with Istredd for further information.” 

Despite her joking tone, the witcher could see she was equally as concerned for Jaskier’s fate. 

“Whatever they’ve chosen to do with him, it won’t be good. Ancient god-worship isn’t keen on safe-keeping and well wishes as you might have guessed.” Yennefer pulled the hood back from her face, drawing her hair into a loose ponytail at the back of her skull. “If you want to save him, from whatever’s going to happen here, then we need to act now.”

That frigid lance of anxiety was back in Geralt’s gut. They had already wasted so much time, and the sun was so low in the sky, painting a pink and red rouge over the village as if warning of the bloodshed to come.

_Not if I can help it,_ thought Geralt. _Not him, and not now._

He licked his lips in anticipation. “What’s the plan, then?”

“Get in, get him, get out.”

“That’s it?”

“You want something more thorough?” She raised a brow. “You hate planning.”

She was right. Not that he’d admit it. But the scent of Jaskier’s blood was completely dissipated at this point, making Geralt itch to depart.

“We get him,” he said finally, “and we get out. Immediately. No more staying and hunting for the bark. We portal immediately home.”

Yennefer looked disappointed, though didn’t argue. It was clear she’d made her peace with their plan being blown to bits the minute Undvikrs had taken Jaskier. She waved her hand in an oblong shape, drawing forth a portal.

Geralt eyed it warily.

“We’ll save time by not walking down there, you know.”

The witcher groaned. “Doesn’t mean I have to like it.”

“I know, you overgrown child. I know.”

The two stepped through.

* * *

From afar, the village Jaskier had been spirited away to perhaps could be described as quaint. 

There looked to be roughly twelve homes in all, each with thick, thatched roofs made of clumped straw and mud, which sat atop either a stone or wood body. Evenly spaced, six homes lined up on one side of the street while the other six lined down the opposite side. Behind each house was what seemed to be a barn, each in the exact same shade of weathered brown.

Only one large building looked to have any substantive damage. It was nearer to the fields, and was possibly a grain silo long ago, though it was clear it didn’t serve as that any longer. The left side of its cylindrical body had caved in at some point, making its pyramid-style roof tilt precariously as if to be blown off at any second.

It had all the markings of a village which long ago could have prospered, but fell victim to time, monsters, and the elements. At least, from afar it did.

Up close, the _wrongfooted_ feeling that overwhelmed Geralt when he’d first laid eyes upon the land washed over him again. He paused to make sure he’s medallion wasn’t humming. Everything about the village and it’s too still, too quiet houses felt wrong.

More than wrong; it felt sinister.

He and Yennefer kept tight to the elongating shadows of one of the houses they’d portaled behind. Between the black of his outfit and the darkness of her clothes, they melded seamlessly into the darkness.

“Do you still have his trail?” Yennefer whispered.

Geralt focused. Breathing deep, he could no longer catch Jaskier’s blood-scent, though it was evident hoofprints had cut through the center of the town’s path. He had to assume it was Vigo’s mount which left the trail, and their best bet would be to follow. 

The way led down the village’s main drag, toward the dilapidated grain silo.

He and Yennefer kept to the backs of the houses, crouching low as they passed through the shadows. For each dwelling they passed, Geralt kept his gaze down, not wanting to inadvertently meet someone’s eye — until the last house, where he caught sight of something, shimmering in a sill.

Geralt paused. It was a ring. Not just one, but several — all similar, if not the same, to the ones Jaskier typically featured on his fingers. The witcher blanched. It wasn’t just the rings that sat on the sill which bothered him.

There, laying on the floor and stained crimson, was a robin’s egg-blue doublet and trousers. They were trimmed in gold, cast aside next to a pair of journeyman’s boots and a worn leather satchel.

_“Yen,”_ Geralt hissed. 

He pointed inside the house, drawing attention to the items and clothes cast across the floor. She looked just as bewildered as he felt. Geralt made to press on, now urged by the discovery, when Yennefer’s grip stopped him.

“There!” She pointed to the mess on the floor. “Under the clothes. Do you see?”

The witcher strained his eyes, against the low light of the interior, before spying it. Underneath the mess left behind, was the clear outline of a trapdoor. Perhaps it was nothing, merely a cellar for the original home owners to keep food safe during the winter, but in a situation like this... They were damned either way. If they failed to check and Jaskier was there, it’d be over; but if they wasted too much time on a simple root cellar, only to find the bard too late— 

Yennefer took the choice out of his hands, charging around the house and pushing on the door, which didn’t budge. He followed her, catching the sorceress just in time before she lit the door on fire in her haste. Geralt moved her back an arms length before blowing a gust of _aard_.

The wood gave way. In its wake, a gale of dust plumed outward with a great cough. Not waiting for it to settle, Yennefer rushed inward and began clearing the space, kicking the clothing away from the cellar door. Breathing out a stream of Elder, she held one hand aloft and one by one soft white lights flickered into existence.

They bobbed through the air like bubbles but kept close to the sorceress.

“Do you see a handle?” Yennefer whispered, examining where the door’s outline was on the floor.

He did. Deep in the grooves of the flooring, clear notches of a handhold were inlaid, making it so the door was not pulled open, but rather pushed aside. Geralt dropped to his knees and opened it. Half of the dancing lights descended into the ground immediately. 

The witcher dropped in soon after, as did Yennefer after a moment of hesitation. She pushed something into Geralt’s chest after righting herself. It was a small pouch, the contents of which softly clinked. Then it hit him: the rings.

“He’ll probably want those back,” she said, pushing past Geralt, “can’t do much about the clothes though, unfortunately.”

Without Yennefer’s spell, the tunnel would have been impenetrably dark. But with them, it was clear this was no root cellar, and they’d made the right decision in electing to follow.

Dumbly, the witcher nodded. “Not like he doesn’t have more.”

“Well for some of us, who enjoy more than the all black wardrobe, it’s a shame to have to lose nice things.”

The sorceress’ voice created a faint echo, which meant the tunnel must have been much longer, and possibly wider, than either of them anticipated. What struck Geralt wasn’t the sound, though. It was the flooring: cobblestone. Like the kind found on the streets that paved Novigrad or Oxenfurt, it was bricked deep into the ground, meaning this length of road — however far it went — was well traversed.

Whether that was a good or bad thing, he didn’t know. And the further they walked, the less sure Geralt became. He almost voiced the uncertainty, until a faint, cool breeze brushed his cheeks.

Flowing air. An exit.

It seemed Yennefer had come to the same conclusion. Her steps quickened, and the lights about them seemed to dim as the air grew stronger, and warmer. The path took them upwards, before leveling out as it opened into a cavern. Wherever the air was coming from, it wasn’t here, though it wasn’t far either. 

Before them had opened to a wide, circular chamber, about the size of a jousting ring. Even in the dark Geralt could see the room — if it could be referred to as such — had the same cobbled flooring and dirt walls, and an exit on the other side as if the tunnel split right through it. Unlike the tunnel, however, this area’s walls were not bare.

Ringed around the chamber’s wall hung art — portraits, the size seen in castles or churches, depicting various scenes of gods at work and play. Each painting, though somewhat crude in execution, featured its own placard, runes explaining the scene etched into the wall: _The Binding of Fenrir, Thor's Duel with Hrungnir, The Coming Of Rag Nar Roog_.

Some names, like Freya and Loki, he’d heard of before. Those names of worship had transferred into the new age of Skelligan faith. But others featured — Hoder, Narfi, Od and more — were unfamiliar. Geralt found himself creeping around the circumference of the chamber, followed closely by two of Yennefer’s light wisps and the sorceress herself.

If this was where they worshiped, then it would only be reasonable to assume the name Freyr would be featured here. Perhaps they could learn more. Time was of the essence, but no witcher worth his salt wandered into a battle without knowing the enemy.

That was what he told himself, at least, eyes frantically tracing each plaque as they passed.

Eventually he found it, and if Yennefer’s short, surprised inhale was anything to go by, she did too.

_Jaskier_.

There on the wall, impossibly, was the bard, cornflower blue eyes dancing merrily in the painting as if the ink was alive with human spirit. His face was older, hair long enough to brush his jaw, nose a bit too wide but — _there_ in the painting was Jaskier, playing a flute for a rather plump and pleased looking boar as he reclined into the beast’s belly like a chair.

The two lounged before a reflective pool, flowers tangled in the man’s hair. His bare body was furred in all the same places Jaskier was, and muscled alike. There was even a scar, dashed across the painting’s knee, in a similar place to one Geralt knew was on the bard’s leg from where he’d drunkenly tried to leave a romp with a woman’s husband from a second story window and fallen on a misplaced garden spade in the process.

He almost reached out to touch the piece, as if doing so would pull the bard through. As if he was trapped in the painting, just waiting for them to let him out.

_Freyr and Gullinborsti_ , read the runes, though the witcher knew better.

It was Jaskier. Or someone, something, that looked like the bard.

“This is… _interesting,”_ Yennefer breathed, hand half outstretched like she wanted to do the same thing Geralt felt. “Do you think this is old? Or just a very eerie liken—,”

Whatever she was considering was swallowed up by a sudden and very powerful rumbling. Loose pebbles shook free from the ceiling, unseen, high above them, and showered down on the two.

Geralt whirled about, grabbing for a sword. It didn’t feel like a cave-in. And an earthquake, while possible, didn’t match the way these vibrations rumbled through the chamber. It was as if the walls around them had begun to tremble. Like something very large, and very dangerous, was about to leap through them.

At the far end of the cavern, the wall split evenly in two, and began to part like a door being opened. 

Yennefer grabbed for the witcher’s free hand, hissing at him to stand stone still. Her dancing little lights snuffed themselves from existence.

Pressed tight to the wall, she mumbled a string of Elder that Geralt could only partially translate, though he knew it was enough. It was an invisibility spell. Powerful as it was, anyone could spy the glamour in an instant if the user moved suddenly and revealed their outline.

Light filled the cavern. Men with torches had begun spilling out of the crack in the wall, and with them came at least twenty other people of all ages, each as gaunt and wide eyed as the last. Some sported face paint similar to the bandit Darby’s. 

Whether they’d intended to or not, it seemed they’d found the village. But none of that mattered if it meant Jaskier wasn’t with them.

_In due time,_ Yennefer whispered, telepathically. _We’ll find him._

Reflexively, Geralt almost pushed her out of his head, before realizing it was the only way to stay safe and maintain contact with her.

_Can you see him? Is he here?_

_Not that I can tell._

When it seemed all had entered the cavern, they’d begun to arrange themselves in five neat lines, six people in each line in the center of the room. Between the square blocking of people, they’d split themselves, as if clearing the way for someone — or some _thing_ — to step through. 

At the end of this path stood the torch bearers, of which there were seven, who had formed a circle around a stone slab which had gone unnoticed by the witcher in his haste to uncover Freyr’s identity. The bearers stood with their backs to Yennefer and Geralt, while the would-be parishioners stared at them dead on.

Any moves, and thirty-some odd people would know. He scanned their faces, pausing only when he realized one looked familiar.

_The boat hand!_

Yennefer made a noise of confusion, which rang through his skull.

_In the crowd — the man who sailed us here. He’s in the third row!_

_That explains the possibility of how they knew your bard was on the island, then._

He didn’t have long to mull the possibility. From the same entrance sounded a methodical _clip-clip-clip_ of heeled boots across the floor and a man with an antler-made crown stepped forth, flanked on either side by men built like bears: tall, broad, and covered in coarse long beards with wild manes of hair.

It seemed they’d found the infamous druid who’d _requested_ Jaskier’s presence, too. 

Among the lot entering was Vigo. This time, his face also featured paint, though it was different from the others in the crowd yet the same as all the men he entered the chamber with. Across his face in an X marking were three lines, the width of fingers, which stretched from just above his eyebrows, through his eyes and across the jowls until it met Vigo’s facial hair. Each line met at a point at the center of his forehead.

Strangest of all, each man had blooms of flowers woven into his beard. As they made their way to the dais, the witcher could pick up a faint, hummed tune. It was one he didn’t recognize. 

Enamored, Geralt stared at the bandit warriors. Eyes flitting from one person to the next, taking in their paint and blooms, he almost missed sight of the person stumbling amid their procession.

His medallion began to hum.

_Don’t make a sound,_ Yennefer reminded him. _If you want to rescue him, don’t even breathe._

It was hard not to. Blood rushed in Geralt’s ears, dimming every other sound in the chamber except the rush of his own anger, which burned white-hot like a fresh stoked forge. He dug his fingers into his palm to keep himself from ruining everything.

Between the burly bodies leading the way, flashes of Jaskier could be seen stumbling as if drunk. While Geralt couldn’t be certain, it looked as if the bard’s hands had been forced together and bound at the wrists and elbows to ensure he couldn’t move without hindrance. What concerned him most, though, were the flashes of paint — or what Geralt hoped was paint — visible on Jaskier’s bare chest, arms and legs. 

They had stripped him down to a thin taupe cloth, wrapped around his hips and covering his loins, as if to give some semblance of modesty. But unlike the others, who featured solid-style paint jobs, the strokes marking the bard appeared to be runes, scrawled like vines down the insides of his arms — and old runes, at that.

Some the witcher only recognized from long-ago published texts housed in Kaer Morhen, though he didn’t know what they meant or how to read them. 

Even Jaskier’s face was marked — similar to Vigo’s, but instead of the lines ending at the center of his skull, they continued on across his forehead and into his hair— as if he’d been clawed across the face. Where they met in the center of his head was a circle; the inside was devoid of the lines, but featured a [ rune ](https://i.pinimg.com/originals/93/cb/e2/93cbe23ac759ead05c2ed993bc63fe47.jpg) that looked like a diamond, with lines kept going until they touched the circle’s edges. And held firm by his teeth, strapped with cloth to the back of his head, was something resembling a gag or a _bit_. 

Like the bard was an unruly _animal_ being led to slaughter.

Yennefer again reminded him to stay rational, but Geralt found with each passing second the feat was harder and harder to do. 

As Jaskier stumbled through the parted crowd, those closest to him reached out, leaving behind streaks of red across his arms and parts of his chest. What they left behind did little to obscure the runic symbols drawn upon him.

When the procession stopped, the bard stumbled, and one of the warriors grabbed his arm to hold him upright. It was clear, either from something he’d been given or by one too many blows to the skull, Jaskier was incapable of standing on his own. His head dipped harshly, like a broken doll before snapping back up in an attempt at attention.

The antler-crowned druid raised a white wood staff, and the torch bearers fanned out, giving Geralt and Yennefer a better view. Each person in the crowd raised both hands toward him. For the ones who hadn’t groped Jaskier, their palms reflected in the firelight with still wet red paint.

_You hope that’s paint,_ Yennefer’s voice rang in his head. _Well, at least I do._

It struck Geralt then that the way the proceeding was oriented, the man had raised his staff directly at the depiction of Freyr. Time seemed to be running out. Before he or Yennefer could do anything, the man leading the group spoke, loud enough that it reverberated throughout the chamber.

“We must no longer fret.” The man’s voice wasn’t any deeper than Geralt’s own, but it was strong — stronger than to be expected from a clearly old and frail frame. Against his chest, the wolf-head medallion thrummed harder. “Tonight, as has been foretold, we begin to return the harvest to our lands and the life to our cities. Tonight, we stand before one of the many Makers, as the patriarchs and matriarchs of the forgotten children of Undvik, and we receive the honor of breaking Freyr from his mortal bindings — cast upon him when the gods fled the fall of Asgard and sought safety in the form of a common man.”

Jaskier’s noise of fear, not unlike the yelp of a fox caught in a snare, was swallowed by parishioners calling loudly back in Old Skellegan. He recoiled from the dais, only to be yanked back and sent sprawling before it. 

It blocked Geralt’s view from seeing the bard, but only briefly, as Vigo yanked him back into a standing position, fingers laced deep into the hair at the back of Jaskier’s head. The way the bandit had positioned him, faced toward the icon of Freyr, Geralt could see Jaskier’s eyes had glassed-over, irises nearly engulfed by how wide his pupils were blown. 

“But despite the heavens being safe now, the gods have dallied too long. They have forgotten their way back.” The priest wet his lips. “So it falls unto us: Those who honor tradition, who have not shirked duty for the comfort of modern dwellings, to send Him back.”

There was no way the bard had any ability to get himself out of this situation, let alone fight if the time came. 

_We have to do something,_ thought Geralt, as he inched away from Yennefer, despite the noises of protest and insults she screamed in his head.

The crowned man continued, unaware of the sorceress and witcher in their midst: “Blood of man nurtures blood of the land. And so we must return Home our wayward Freyr, free him from the bindings his soul was cursed into, so that he may thank us with life again on these hallowed lands.”

“Praise be!” Shouted a few spattered voices in the crowd, “Praise be to Freyr!”

_Geralt, stop!_

The witcher almost audibly snarled, but stopped himself just in time. _They’ll kill him!_

Whoever held Jaskier’s lead let it fall, and off came the bindings. Vigo, still gripping the bard’s upper arm, led Jaskier onto the platform and laid him upon the dais on his back. Three other men flanked them, gripping tightly to the bard’s wrists and ankles.

The druid priest reoriented himself so that he stood before Jaskier’s head and placed two fingers onto the rune etched into his forehead.

He began to speak, to chant— 

And several things happened all at once.

The first, which nearly stopped Geralt in his tracks, was that Jaskier began to scream. He’d heard the bard yell before: shouts of happiness, alarm, skittish fear — but never had he heard such a raw, pained noise from the man, which stood every hair on the witcher’s arm at attention.

Jaskier’s back bowed up and off the dais with such force, the four men holding him down struggled to keep him there as he wriggled like a caught fish out of water. Geralt was thrown back, suddenly, to the Trial of the Grasses. Of listening to the other boys cry out for their mothers, for mercy, for anyone who could possibly come and save them from the hell they’d been thrust into and finding nothing but more agony.

It was hard to imagine that without the gag, the screeching could be — _would_ be — even worse.

The second was Yennefer in his brain, calling him a fool and an ass, calling for him to come back so that they could regroup and fight _together_ rather than apart. Later, when this was all over, Geralt would have to apologize to her for bristling at the thought of waiting another minute and sniping back if she would be cautious were this Triss’ life on the line.

And finally, what spilled forth from the witcher was a burst of _aard_ so powerful that it not only blew out the flames each of the torchbearers held from nearly 20 yards away, but it burst the wood on impact, plunging everyone in the cavern into complete darkness.

Some of the villagers began to yell in alarm, while Vigo’s voice rang angered and loud from the dark: “Witcher!”

Not being disadvantaged by the dark, Geralt charged forward, sword gripped tight in one hand while a blast of _igni_ charged in the other. As most of the cultists struggled to orient themselves in the blackness it took him no time to reach the dais. 

But Jaskier wasn’t upon it. Cold fear seized the witcher’s guts, but he didn’t have time to dwell on it. A thick saber came down, nearly nicking him in the nose, as its owner thrusted blindly and haphazardly.

Not one to sit back and watch, Yennefer summoned a swirl of dancing lights more powerful than the last, which raised near the ceiling of the chamber and orbited in a lazy circle. Geralt could feel the anger and frustration emanating off of her. 

He didn’t need a mental link to know she was furious.

The sudden transition from dark to light gave Geralt a quick instance where he could shove his sword into the belly of the man before him. He was one of the few who entered with Jaskier. With a groan, the warrior fell backwards and into the dirt, blood blooming from the wound as red as the flowers woven into his beard.

As the rest of the men staggered to their feet, Geralt vaulted the dais, having spotted Jaskier on the other side still seizing as if his body had been struck by lightning. Blood slowly leaked from his nose. Whether it was from the burst of magic, or whatever the druid had done to him, he didn’t know.

_Duck._ Yennefer’s voice rang through his head, and the witcher found himself moving before thinking as his body dropped to the floor. A fan of fire and dirt shot over his head and another warrior dropped before him, this time howling and clutching at his burned face.

Geralt paid him no mind and crawled to Jaskier. He gathered the bard in his arms, finding it hard to get a grip on him as the man bucked and wriggled as if trying to escape from something. Trying to calm him with _axii_ did nothing. It was like an invisible wall had been placed around his mind, leaving Jaskier alone to suffer in whatever torment the druid had cursed upon him.

He pulled the gag from the bard’s mouth, setting free pained wheezes and pants. 

_“Jaskier,"_ Geralt breathed, cupping Jaskier’s tear-stained cheek as if touch alone could stabilize him, “we’re _here._ We’ll get you out of this. We’ll fix it, I—,”

A wayward swipe caught the witcher in the mouth as Jaskier tried to fight back against whatever was playing out in his mind. Clouded eyes made no indication that he could see Geralt, let alone comprehend him.

It would have made him _proud,_ to see Jaskier keep fighting even at his weakest, if it wasn’t so heartbreaking and enraging. He tucked the bard’s head under his chin, pressing a firm kiss to his forehead while doing so.

“We’re _here,”_ he whispered. “Jas—,”

Yennefer called for Geralt, then, a loud and desperate warning. It snapped him back to reality. He struggled to his feet with Jaskier still in his arms, the seizing motions having lessened to a body-wracking tremble. A quick cast of _quen_ enveloped the two of them, timely enough to block the slash of yet another saber.

It was Vigo. Geralt took a step back and held tighter to the bard. Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the sorceress disarm one of the druid’s guards before dispatching him with his own sword.

Behind the warrior, Geralt noted the old druid getting to his feet with the help of the final warrior who had brought Jaskier in. The others, it seemed, had fled back into the passage from which they came, or if they hadn’t, were content to lay prone on the ground with their arms thrown defensively over their heads.

“I’ll kill you,” said the witcher, through bared teeth. If he could bide time, then it was possible Yen could get the jump on the Vigo, incapacitate him, and portal them away. “It may not be today, but I can promise you: You’ll die by my blade.”

The warrior advanced, blood-lust clearly written across his painted face. “Funny. I was to say the same to you for killing my brother, mutant _scum_.”

He crouched as if to pounce again but was blown back by a shot of electric-smelling energy from Yennefer’s fingertips. She was on them both in a flash.

“Fucking _idiot_ ,” she hissed at him. Geralt could smell she was wounded, and something must have crossed his face for she continued: “Feel bad about it later, you oaf. We have to get outside. They have some sort of ward here. I can’t open a portal.”

“What have you _done!”_ The druid’s voice rang over the chamber. Rather than the warriors at his arms, there were two torchbearers, who hadn’t fled. “You’ll doom me, you fools! The gods wrath upon you, vile _beasts!”_

Vigo, now back on his feet, was joined by the last warrior who was tending to their leader.

“He— Freyr _cannot leave!”_ No longer keeping up with the facade of a mild mannered old man, the druid seemed wild-eyed and enraged, as evident by the bulging veins sprouting around his neck. _“Grab them! He_ **_cannot_ ** _leave!”_

Geralt and Yennefer inched toward the exit, opposite of the tunnel they had entered through. With any luck, it would lead them outside. Or, at least, away from here.

The druid’s eyes glowed white as he raised the white wood staff, yelling a string of Old Skelligan as he did. A burst of green light lit the chamber. When Geralt could see again, in the place of Vigo and the other warriors were two massive brown bears.

“Fucking Berserkers,” the witcher spit. “Of _course.”_

Yennefer snorted. “Never a dull moment.”

Vigo charged, flanked by the other two. With a twist of her hand, Yennefer pulled the ground up in front of them to make a wall. At the same time, her dancing lights, which still lazily orbited in the air, extinguished.

“Run!” Yennefer shouted.

Throwing Jaskier over his shoulder, Geralt turned and fled, only making sure to grasp Yennefer by the wrist so that he didn’t lose track of her as well. The sorceress, for her part, kept pace, though it was evident from the hitch in her step that the wound was somewhere on or near her leg. Thinking of every deity he knew of, Geralt hoped against hope they would make it out in one piece.

He felt a cool gust of wind against his face and knew the exit was near. Behind them, a deafening roar signaled the dirt wall had fallen and the bears were fast approaching.

Yennefer mumbled a string of Elder, bringing her little lights back around them — not that Geralt needed it. And it was clear they weren’t for him, as they zipped past the trio and set on blinding the Berserkers. From the noises in the distance, it appeared to be working.

“Just a little further,” the sorceress said, trying not to pant. “I can make a portal... just a little…,”

Geralt grunted, hoping she understood it was a request for her to save her breath. Straining his eyes against the dark, the witcher could see the tunnel split into two paths: forward and left. Not stopping to check, he barreled forward and Yennefer stumbled along behind him.

The bears’ roars reverberated throughout the tunnel. He couldn’t tell if they were any closer than before, because of it.

It didn’t matter. Only a few more steps forward, and Geralt could see it. He let loose a string of creative expletives. Their only path had fallen victim to a cave in, leaving them at a dead end and easy pickings for the coming Berserkers.

“The way is blocked,” he breathed. “Yen, we need a portal.”

The witcher could smell the sweat pouring off of her. She shook Geralt’s hand off of her, and in the dim-light his vision afforded him, he could see her teeth clenched tightly as she tried to pull her chaos together.

Loud roars sounded even closer than before. He could make out the distinct shape of the Berserkers in the distance.

Yennefer threw a hand up, and with it came a swirling purple vortex. It flickered, as if uncertain of its own ability to exist. The sorceress staggered. Overpowering a barrier, even at a distance, was no small feat. 

Geralt gripped tight to Jaskier’s bare thigh as he shook against the witcher’s shoulder. His other arm wrapped around Yennefer’s waist, as he pressed his face into her hair.

“Hold tight,” he whispered, knowing he needn’t.

Her hands found his belt and squeezed in affirmation. One of the bears was close enough now that Geralt could smell its breath. The witcher braced himself, eyes squeezed shut as he threw the three of them through the portal.

Nausea overcame him, first. Then the scent of fur, blood, sweat and... pine? 

Geralt felt his foot hit hardwood and opened his eyes. The portal snapped shut behind them, silencing the last bestial roar from within the caverns. Before he took in anything of their surroundings, which appeared to be a small wooden cottage, his eyes locked onto the only other person besides them in the room.

Yennefer staggered from his grip and into their arms. 

“Triss,” Geralt croaked, watching as the red haired sorceress pressed a hard kiss onto Yennefer’s brow. 

He slung Jaskier from his shoulder to hold him in a bridal carry. In his arms, the bard jerked and trembled every few seconds, as if being periodically zapped by an unknown force. The blood from his nose had smeared up and across his face from being held upside down. Mixed with the paint already there, it gave the man a truly ghastly appearance.

Geralt opened his mouth to speak, but Triss seemed to understand without anything being said.

She steered the witcher by his elbow into a nearby bedroom, decorated with enough furniture and wall adornings to give it a homey feel. Geralt deposited the bard on the bedspread. 

Triss whirled on him. “Are you hurt?”

With a weight literally lifted from his shoulders, Geralt could finally stop to register the amount of pain he was in and how tired his body felt. But Jaskier took precedence.

“No, I—,” Geralt couldn’t finish his thought before the sorceress was speaking again.

“Yen?”

The other sorceress shook her head from where she was leaning against the door frame. “Just a nick from a sword. I can stop the bleeding on my own.”

“Alright,” Triss nodded to herself, then turned to the two of them. “I’ll call for you if I need anything.”

Geralt made a noise of confusion. “You don’t even—,” 

“Yen’s already filled me in.” Triss tapped the side of her head, a stony look on her face. “You’ll just be in the way if you stay.”

The witcher found himself being led out the room by a firm push to his chest. Yennefer took him by the arm and moved to shut the door. Just before it closed, Geralt caught sight of Jaskier’s face, marked and bloodied and glassy-eyed. The bard let loose a high, loud whine of pain, bucking up off the bed like he had on the dais. Then the image was gone, replaced by sturdy black walnut wood.

Geralt stood there for a moment, listening to the sounds around him: of Triss’ shushing and spellwork, of Jaskier’s rabbit-heart paced heartbeats thrumming away, of Yennefer’s tired sigh from behind him.

She touched his shoulder. “We should clean u—,” 

“No.”

He wouldn’t let that look of mindless pain be the last he saw of the bard. Even if it took days, weeks, he’d stand vigil and—

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Yennefer snapped. “You smell. You’re covered in blood. When the bard wakes up, he’ll have your head if he sees you like this.”

“Get out of my head, Yen.”

“I don’t need to be in your head to know you’re brooding.”

It was true, he supposed. She was the only one in the world who’d know Geralt’s feelings without needing to intervene in his thoughts. All because of that damned djinn-bond. It was his fault for making that wish, which meant it was his fault the road had led them to where they stood now.

_I just don’t want you to spend your whole life looking for something_ —

_only to have everything else pass by._

That was what Jaskier had said to him. One of the last things he’d spoken before they’d been attacked: and his response had been to tell him, albeit for the bard’s own safety, to shut up.

Had his moment passed? Had he spent so long looking for the perfect moment, perfect time in his life to bare his feelings to the bard that it slipped by without him knowing?

Geralt squeezed his eyes closed. In his mind he saw Jaskier on the dais, writhing and screaming. It would be a long, long time before that noise left his memory — if ever. When he opened them again, Yennefer was gone, but not far. He could hear her setting a bath in a room down the hall.

Following her lead, the witcher made for the last room at the end of the hall and found a large tub, single bed and some odds and ends inside. If he couldn’t wait by Jaskier’s side now, the least he could do was make sure to be ready for when he could.

* * *

Morning’s light had crept over the horizon and cast the sky a soft pink and yellow by the time Triss emerged from Jaskier’s room. The red haired sorceress looked exhausted, as if she, too, had ventured with them to the underbelly of Undvik and fought off a horde of misguided cultists.

“You been up this whole time?” 

The witcher shrugged from his spot on the small chaise which was one of two rests that took up the cottage’s tiny living room. At least now he didn’t stink of sweat and dirt.

Yet sleep still eluded him. The one time Geralt had managed to fall asleep, his dreams had twisted reality into an alternate conclusion — one where he and Yennefer hadn’t made it to Jaskier in time, and were made to watch as the druid siphoned life out of the bard until he was little more than a shriveled husk.

That alone was enough to fill him with an anxious energy which kept him from resting until he could confirm, with his own eyes and hands, that Jaskier had indeed lived.

Triss sat next to him and knocked their knees together.

“He’ll live, Geralt.”

The iron pressure on his chest, lifted some — but not entirely.

“Why do I feel like there’s a _‘but’_ on the end of that sentence?”

The sorceress sighed. “Because honestly? What happened to him, what was done… It was very old, very dark magic. Magic that’s been banned from practice in every school on the Continent. I can’t guarantee there won’t be…,”

_Side effects._

One didn’t have to be a scholar in the arcane arts to know old and dark magic usually meant unknown outcomes. 

The witcher bit down his questions as Triss continued: “The spell — it was meant to depersonalize. The end goal was to strip Jaskier’s mind from his body, and leave behind a husk. A shell, effectively. One that could be easily manipulated and controlled.” 

She looked to Geralt, eyes flashing furiously. 

“That kind of magic... it’s inhumane. It inflicts psychic pain to the point the mind effectively breaks, and the person ceases to be in all but physical presence. They don’t even exist inside of themselves, they’re just… _gone.”_

The witcher didn’t care if he sounded like a child as he asked, voice soft: “But... why?” 

“Why anyone or why Jaskier, specifically?” Triss shook her head. “I don’t think I could tell you for certain. From what Yennefer showed me…,” she sighed, “I think a druid from the Skelligan mainland recognized he had power over a group of impressionable people and took advantage of that. And when Jaskier came into the mix… it was like the stars aligned.

“This is just me _hypothesizing_ here, but I think he thought if he could erase Jaskier’s personality, if he could make a puppet of the person who looked similar enough to an icon of a god… perhaps he’d be able to keep that power longer — maybe even the rest of his life. There are men out there who’d do a lot worse for a lot less. You don’t even have to look as far as Skellige to find it.”

They lapsed into silence as Geralt tried to process it all. It was dumb luck: not fate, not a prophecy — nothing divine, just human selfishness and being in the wrong place at the wrong time — which had nearly ended in the bard all but forced into a soul lobotomy.

“So the fact they had an idol which looked like Jaskier…,”

“Was probably the result of sheer coincidence,” she finished. “When I looked him over, there was nothing magical or non-human I could sense about him. It was just... being in the wrong place at the right time, I think.”

Triss yawned and stood. In the morning half-light, the shadows which drew across her face gave the impression she was perhaps more tired than she let on. And Triss had already let on to that fact a great deal.

She touched Geralt’s shoulder. He looked up. Bright blue, bold eyes stared back at him. 

“We won’t know the extent of the damages until he wakes up,” she said, voice pitched as if talking to a spooked animal, “but you can go in there and see him if you like. Wake me when he’s conscious, would you?”

The witcher nodded. It was hard not to betray his eagerness at the prospect. Triss bid him good morning as she disappeared down the hall and into the same room Yennefer had laid claims to earlier.

When the door shut, Geralt waited a beat, then another, before getting to his feet. He found himself before Jaskier’s room in a few short strides but unable to enter. 

He couldn’t see the bard still trussed up in paint and sweat and blood. But he also couldn’t wait outside the door forever, taking up space in the narrow hallway like the imposing force he was.

Geralt’s hand rested on the knob and he thought of the djinn, then. Of how, in both instances, Jaskier was the one bearing the physical brunt of his and Yennefer’s burden. How the human bard seemed to have become a cosmic punching bag in a witch and a Witcher’s quest to right their own self-made wrongs.

The irony could have made him laugh, were he not so anxious.

Unable to stall any longer, Geralt opened the door. And just like the last time he’d fallen victim to djinn-related misfortune, there laid Jaskier in a bed Yennefer owned — more likely, Triss, given the homey and non-ostentatious look the cottage sported — seeming as if he’d only recently decided to tuck himself in and take a nap. 

Geralt made his way to the bedside. 

There was no paint. No blood. Just some light bruising around his left cheek and temple, no doubt from where he’d fallen from the dais. Dark circles of exhaustion ringed the bard’s eyes. And Geralt was sure if he’d look, there’d be bruising from Vigo’s fist stamped across Jaskier’s abdomen as well.

When he thought on it more, save for the moments they’d been apart on Undvik, Jaskier had undergone very little physical trauma. Yet, he couldn’t let himself fall victim to hope — that a lack of markings meant the bard was in the clear.

It was the mental markings which often left the worst scars, the witcher knew.

With nowhere to sit besides on the bed, and not wanting to fetch a chair from the kitchen, Geralt made himself comfortable in a meditation stance on the floor. His hands balled into fists and rested taut against his thighs. There was nothing more he wanted than to grab Jaskier’s hand, to feel his pulse thrumming under the veins in his arm — to not just see, but know and feel he was okay.

But given what got them here, and the way he’d been grabbed and groped by the villagers, he thought better of it. Instead, he leaned his head in close so that it barely touched the comforter. To an outsider, it would almost look like he were holding vigil. Praying. Though it was because he could hear Jaskier’s faint, steady, heartbeat from this close, did Geralt keep his position.

“I’m sorry.” 

Said in his deep timbre, the witcher’s words cut through the otherwise still quiet of the room. It felt selfish of him to say something so insincere sounding but that was all he had. 

He was sorry. Sorry for dragging Jaskier halfway around the world so that he could be led on a goosechase, in a search for a potion which would possibly not work; sorry for wasting time when they could have used more words, for the years that had passed by with a single minded determination on anything but Geralt admitting his feelings; sorry for not better protecting the bard, leaving him possibly altered.

Forever.

What would he do if Jaskier woke up changed? If the man had forgotten everything about Geralt: their adventures, their shared memories, their relationship — what reason would there be for him to stay by the witcher’s side? Did he, Geralt, have the power to let the bard go if that were the outcome?

_I just don’t want you to spend your whole life looking for something only to have everything else pass by._

Geralt attempted to center himself, only to see the bard stumbling and sprawling before the dais again. He scrubbed at his face as if the force alone could wipe the memory. If those were his final moments with Jaskier, watching him seize and scream, waiting for the opportunity to strike as if the man’s life wasn’t on the line... Gods above, he’d never be able to forgive himself. 

“I think I... know what you meant, now, when you talked about time passing us by,” Geralt murmured, “and I promise, when you wake up: no more waiting. No more hiding. No—,” he struggled to find the words.

“I’m not a poet, like you. I’m not a person who’s... _good_ at saying what they feel. But I’m here. I’m here now, for good, bond be damned — and I’m not going anywhere. Not unless you want me to.”

Would he be able to say this to the bard’s face once he woke? Geralt had no idea. But in this moment where he could hide his face with his long hair and speak into the blankets as he knelt at Jaskier’s bedside, he felt energized to.

His and Yennefer’s bond, quite possibly, might never be broken. And not acknowledging that, not taking a chance on what he could have now, rather than to wait until a fabled ‘right moment’ — he’d be a fool, an utter imbecile, not to take the opportunity as it came.

In a burst of confidence, Geralt straightened and grabbed one of the bard’s hands. It was cool to the touch, slim fingers slack against the witcher’s own calloused ones. Content to simply hold on, Geralt again settled back into his meditative stance, palm pressed against Jaskier’s own, touching the bard’s pulse point as a way to ground himself.

The irony of kneeling at the bard’s bedside, as if worshiping a god, was not lost on him. But just then — Jaskier’s grounding touch, his beating heart, his sleep-soft sighs — it was everything Geralt needed to let go. To rest.

And he must have, for he would swear it was only moments later Yennefer’s voice filled the room.

“Can you believe he said he wasn’t tired?”

Geralt stiffened, ready to snipe back, until another voice interrupted: “You know how he is.”

_Jaskier._

The witcher’s head jerked upright, eyes wide at the sight of the bard, still laid back against the pillows but alert and giving him a soft smile.

“Morning,” he whispered to Geralt, “Or, at this point, is it afternoon? I’m a bit behind on my days, to be honest.”

“You’re awake,” said Geralt, dumbly. “When—,”

“Just a few moments ago,” Yennefer answered. “You didn’t miss much.” 

It was then he realized he still had a hold on Jaskier’s hand. As if he knew what Geralt was thinking, Jaskier tightened his grip, squeezing twice in affirmation. It was so weak that the witcher barely registered it. 

For a moment, both were content to stare at one another. Geralt couldn’t begin to guess what was racing through the bard’s head. As for himself, his thoughts were disjointed, wanting to ask Jaskier about how he was feeling, what he remembered, and if he were hungry all at once.

So he did, feeling embarrassed when Jaskier blinked owlishly at him then began to laugh. It only lasted for a moment, a pained wince cracking his glee. 

Geralt leapt to his feet. “I’ll get Triss.”

“No, wait!” Jaskier’s voice still sounded raw. “It was just a twinge—,”

But the witcher was already out of the room and searching for the sorceress before Jaskier could get another word in. Were it possible for Geralt to blush, he might have been. 

_So much for explaining your feelings,_ he thought to himself. _Coward._

When he returned with the sorceress, she took care to reassess the bard and his mental state, forcing him to track her finger with his eyes and recount the last thing he remembered prior to waking. His answer and the look in his eyes as he answered was enough to keep them from prompting any further about what had happened to Jaskier on Undvik. 

“I awoke already naked and being force fed a paste that tasted like berries. Everything after that—,” he closed his eyes and breathed in, “It was all just pain. Unending pain. Like I had stopped being a person and had just become a creature which craved death. Everything after they led me to the altar, it’s just… white.”

An oppressive silence covered the room. 

“I think... that’s enough for now,” said Triss, softly. Despite needing to check Jaskier for any lingering head damage, she seemed abashed by the answers he provided. Making for the door, she paused at the jamb to add, “let me know when you’re ready and I’ll bring you some broth.”

She closed the door behind her and Geralt was alone, again, with the bard — who had made no acknowledgement he had heard, let alone processed what the sorceress had said. He stepped closer to Jaskier and made a move to reach out for the bard, before stopping himself and bringing his hands back to his sides.

“Jaskier…,” the witcher said, simply because he couldn’t think of anything else. “I—,”

“Could you sit with me?” 

He looked to Geralt, eyes haunted by things he and he alone had experienced. The witcher thought back to the cave, back to Jaskier’s tortured screams — so similar to the boys’ undergoing their Trials — and realized, perhaps, he wasn’t too far off the mark after all.

Geralt began to crouch back into his meditation pose before Jaskier stopped him: “I meant on the bed.”

If it involved being closer to the bard, then he had no qualms. Jaskier patted the space next to him, which was nowhere near enough room for the witcher without smothering the other man in the process. But it was clear by the small amount of scooching the bard was attempting to do that he meant by the head — and not the foot — of the bed. 

Geralt settled in as much as he could, but it was clear whatever he was doing was not to Jaskier’s liking.

“I was almost killed, not cursed,” he huffed, “you can touch me without repercussion, you know. It’s not like we haven’t shared a bed _before.”_

“I just... didn’t want to assume.”

And that was the truth of it. He wanted nothing more than to touch Jaskier, to feel the proof of life thrumming under his skin as he pressed himself against the bard like they could polymerize into one being. Because if he held Jaskier tight enough, then nothing bad could come to him.

He’d must have made a face, then, for the bard’s tone softened as he tried again: “A great number of people touched me today, almost all of them against my will. It will probably be the most horrific thing I’ll ever undergo. And while it’s absolutely flattering and wonderful that you’d think to ask before encroaching upon my space, I am telling you now — I very much want you to touch me. To hold me, preferably, if you’d be so kind.”

Who was Geralt to say no to a request like that? 

He tried to orient himself again, moving Jaskier so that he laid between the witcher’s outstretched legs, the bard’s body bracketed on either side as he reclined into Geralt to use the man’s burly chest as a backrest.

“There,” said Jaskier, once settled. “Was that so hard?”

Geralt let his arms be guided around the bard’s midsection, like a bearhug. It was only then he realized Jaskier was shaking, and he said as much.

The man stayed quiet, and for a moment, Geralt thought he didn’t hear the comment. 

Then—

An apology.

“I don’t want you to feel like I’m forcing you to hold me,” said Jaskier, voice barely above a whisper. “But when I awoke for a moment… until I realized, until I — well, I thought I was dead. I thought I’d died there and this was — whatever came next.

“But _gods_ for a moment did I think I was back in their village, and I couldn’t stand the thought of it. I had to make sure this wasn’t a dream. That this was _real._ Because if I had to go through that again… I’d rather die first.”

The witcher squeezed him tight, pressing his nose into Jaskier’s hair. Saying anything in this moment seemed insincere at best.

“You’ll have to fill me in on your daring rescue, one day,” the bard said, after the silence had dragged on long enough. “When it’s not so... fresh. It could make for a wonderfully weird tune.”

Geralt hummed. The light, stale scent of sweat still lingered about the other man’s person, though it was fainter than the witcher expected. And slightly more... chemical? Perhaps Triss had spelled him clean when she’d set about removing the paint and blood.

“Had I known what would have happened…,” the words which came to Geralt earlier had left, and all he could do was think of what could have happened did they not find the bard in time. “I—,”

“Don’t apologize. Please.”

“But—,”

Jaskier grabbed the witcher’s forearm, interrupting him with a grip that was still kitten-weak. “Did you take me there on purpose, knowing that would happen?”

Even the notion of doing something like that appalled Geralt.

_“No!”_

“Exactly.” The bard made a huffing noise that sounded suspiciously like a laugh. “So nothing to apologize for. You came for me, after all. Didn’t you? Even at the expense of your potion, I presume.”

“Fuck the potion.” Geralt’s words came out more harsh and biting than even he expected. “I would always choose you over some stupid—,”

“I know.”

The sincerity in his own voice should have shocked the witcher, but it didn’t. Maybe he was the last one out of all of them — of Jaskier, of Yennefer, hell, even of _Roach_ — to clue up to the fact waiting for a fabled ‘right time’ was idiotic. That all those instances of playing off staring too long, of feigning sleep when they shared a bed, just so he could hold on tighter — of being frightened, for the first time in gods knew how long, whenever Jaskier put himself in precarious situations; those instances were love.

Not what he had with Yennefer, but something purer. Simpler. Something that crept up on him, blinded him to the fact that this whole time... perhaps he could have been happy, without the need for a perfect ending. 

He knew he was in love with Jaskier. How long had the bard known the same?

“When I was… Down there, before,” Jaskier paused, breathed, then tried again. “In the cave, I could hear your voice. Even when everything went _awry,_ for lack of a better word, I could hear you above all the noise. The pain.” His hands had begun to skim idly against the exposed skin of Geralt’s forearm. “It... I think it helped. Grounded me. Without it, I don’t know if, I... _well.”_

Even if it wasn’t said, Geralt understood what he meant. 

“It made me realize something,” the bard continued, “and if you’re... opposed, then we can just pretend this is a byproduct of the head injury and never ever speak of it again. Not even when we’re drunk!” He snorted, as if the joke were funny. “But I don’t think you are. I just think... you have trouble getting the words out. And I know I do enough talking, so this time, I’ll do it for the both of us.

“When I thought I was going to die, I thought about all the things I hadn’t done, hadn’t said, I—,”

If Geralt could grip him any tighter, Jaskier would be losing oxygen, surely.

_“Jaskier…,”_

“I _love_ you.” His hoarse voice sounded like a shout in the still of the room. “I love you, Geralt. More than a friend. More than a fuck. More than I’ve ever loved anyone or anything before. And I’m not saying this means you have to love me, and me alone, but I know that we’ve danced around this subject before— and I have _tried_ to give you space, to reach some sort of conclusion on your own, but… I couldn’t, I _can’t_ …,” 

His voice gave out, exhausted from the talking he’d done since waking.

Jaskier went slack then, relaxing back into Geralt’s hold like he’d only had the energy to get his words out and nothing more. His breathing began to even out. After a moment, Geralt checked to make sure the bard was still awake. Despite his eyes being closed, he assured him he was.

Heart thrumming, Geralt knew this was it.

While there was no fabled right moment, there was a right way to respond to the road laid out before him. All he had to do was follow the path — and that was something, as a witcher, he could do.

“You stole my thunder,” Geralt whispered, mouth cracking into a smile, “did you know that?”

Jaskier tittered. “Been told I’m very theatrical. Love the spotlight.”

“You did, though. I had a speech rehearsed. Even practiced it while you were sleeping.”

“You _didn’t.”_ The bard genuinely sounded shocked. 

Geralt squeezed him. 

“This whole time, I had built up in my head that I couldn’t... That I _shouldn’t_ say anything to you until after I untangled my issues with the djinn,” he said, voice a low rumble against the crown of Jaskier’s head, “And I can’t believe it took this… almost _losing you_ to realize—,” 

_That I love you,_ Geralt thought, _that I’ve grown so accustomed to you here I can’t conceive what’ll happen when you go_. Why was it so hard to say?

“I wanted to go to Undvik because I wanted to break the bond. And then when I broke the bond, I wanted to tell you about… how I feel. Because,” he searched for the right phrasing, “because I didn’t want you to think that you were meant to come second to someone else. That you were a replacement for Yennefer, on the nights she wasn’t there. And people who are close to me, the people I care for... because of who I am, they end up hurt. 

“Now, I realize, that was foolish of me. That I just drug out heartbreak, instead of seeking to mend it. And I hurt you, regardless. Almost lost you in the process.”

“But you haven’t lost me. Not yet.” Jaskier’s hand circled Geralt’s wrist, fingers long enough to almost form a circle around it. “And not for a very long time, hopefully. Now, turn me around so I can see your face, will you?”

Geralt helped him readjust, so that Jaskier faced the door, and rather than being bracketed by the witcher’s legs he sat atop his lap. It was the perfect angle for the bard to dip his head under Geralt’s chin. Instead, he rested it upon his shoulder.

“There. Better.”

“Is it?”

Jaskier reached up to stroke Geralt’s cheek. “I can at least see you now. Though, I have to admit, it is scarier to say now that I have to look you in the eye.”

That it was. 

And Geralt still hadn’t even returned the words yet.

“Do you want to know why I was a prat to you earlier?” Jaskier asked. Confusion must have read on Geralt's face for he clarified, “on the boat. Early on, before we met... _them.”_

Oh. Yes. The bard’s bratty temperament. Geralt nodded for him to go on.

“I know you and Yennefer can’t help what happens with the bond. And I don’t blame either of you for it. Situation’s shit, really. But I was afraid,” he paused, as if debating whether to say what he thought. “I was afraid that you’d realize you truly loved her, even with the bond gone. Afraid and jealous. I thought that all the years I’d spent by your side would mean nothing, that I’d be sidelined again, just... friends.

“And maybe, for you, I could have done it: Loved you, unrequited, from afar. But knowing I’d be having a hand in possibly destroying my own heart, it hurt. Yet, I’d do it again if it meant helping make you happy.”

“How can you do it,” Geralt asked, without meaning to. “Love so easily?”

The bard smiled. “It’s simple: You’re easy to love, my wolf.”

Even if the witcher were a wordsmith, he was sure he’d be left speechless all the same. What had he done to deserve such devotion? Years and years of it, from a human who’d taken a foolhardy chance on him almost 20 years ago under the guise of being allured by Geralt’s aura of death and destiny, heroics and heartbreak.

Funny how he’d almost hit the mark on three of the four in the last 48 hours alone.

Despite Geralt not being a man of words, he was one of action. And the only thing he could do in the face of such a bare statement, one that left Jaskier’s emotions completely exposed and raw, was to kiss him. He couldn’t do anything but.

From this angle, there was an ease of access. The bard was in the perfect position for Geralt to cup the back of his head, to tangle sword-calloused fingers in fine brown hair, and pull him in deep for a kiss that — while not their first, not even their fifth — sure felt like it.

Strangely, Geralt thought of food as he kissed Jaskier; of feeling alive with hunger after summers of fasting. Of that first drink of cool water following a drought. If he could survive alone on the love Jaskier radiated, if he never again were able to drink ale or taste a roast, it would be fine by Geralt. He didn’t need anything else. Didn’t want it.

Jaskier pulled away first, smiling in a way Geralt rarely saw. It wasn’t the verbose look he wore when trying to charm nobles and women alike into more coin or food, but something far more vulnerable.

“Well that’s an answer,” he snorted, “I suppose.”

Geralt leaned their heads together. From this close, he could hear the bard’s heartbeat — still slow, but getting stronger. The last thing he wanted to do was overexert him.

That, undoubtedly, would come later.

“I may not have a way with words, but I don’t want you to doubt that I love you,” said the witcher, barely louder than a breath. Any louder and the sound, the meaning, would have scared him, too. “I have... for some time.”

Jaskier settled back into Geralt’s grip, content to be held. “I know.”

“You knew?” 

“My dear,” he patted Geralt’s chest, “I’ve been able to read you like a book since I was twenty. Why do you think I fell in love with you? Why do you think I stayed? The size of your cock _certainly_ helped, but it was your heart, your spirit, I fell in love with.” He yawned. “The terrors of the world you’ve seen, and yet you continuously choose to be a good man. You’re inspiring.”

Not for the first time, Geralt was thankful the mutagens kept his face from noticeably flushing.

“You’re delirious.”

Jaskier made a noise of disbelief and settled in, placing his ear over the witcher’s heart. “I’m delightful.” 

He yawned again. Taking the hand not tucked between them, Geralt brought the knuckles to his mouth and kissed them. Because he wanted to. Because he could. He held on and bid the bard to rest.

“Would you at least talk to me,” Jaskier asked, “while I go to sleep? It’s just... when I close my eyes…,” 

Geralt knew what he meant. It was the very same reason why his gaze had not left the bard’s face in quite some time; the idea that this, this very moment, could have not happened — that there was a world out there where Jaskier didn’t survive this ordeal… 

“What would you like me to talk about?” 

The bard yawned again. “Anything. Everything.” 

Getting comfortable against the headboard despite the pillows mashed into his lower back, Geralt thought for a moment. Then, it came to him: “Did you know a shrimp’s heart is located in its brain? And that slugs have four noses.”

“They do _not.”_

The witcher shushed him. “You’re supposed to be sleeping, not talking. You know what else sleeps a lot? Snails. Snails can sleep for up to three years.”

Jaskier began to shake then, but from laughter this time, rather than pain. 

“You’re ridiculous. An absolutely ridiculous man.”

“You’re the one who wanted me to talk about everything.”

Laughter subsiding, he sighed. “I supposed I did. Am I allowed to say a fact that I know?” 

“Just one. Then sleep.” 

Geralt lifted his hand, still intertwined with Jaskier’s own, and let it rest over the bard’s heart. It was almost like they’d created a circle: Geralt feeling Jaskier’s heartbeat as Jaskier listened in time to Geralt’s.

“Did you know it’s believed wolves mate for life?”

Though many people believed Geralt to be stupid, by virtue of his profession, Jaskier was not one of them, and the implication of his question wasn’t lost on the witcher. He busked a final kiss for the night to the bard’s head.

“It’s not just a belief,” he whispered, “it’s a fact.”

Like the sky was blue and the grass was green: He belonged to Jaskier, and would see him through whatever came next. Not just in this instance — as Geralt knew the bard seemed alright now, but that trauma was a deceptive thing, which crept up on those unannounced — but in all others. For all their days.

Like the gray wolf mated for life, so too did their witcherly brethren. They protected their own. Ready to live, and die, for one another. And while it might have seemed strange to attribute something like love to such a wild animal, they did that as well — fiercely and without end.

He tried to say as much to Jaskier but found he was already asleep.

And that was alright. They had tomorrow.

They had all the time in the world.


End file.
